Walking around Paris, looking in mirrors. They were going on, reflecting light from relics.

Monet checked his beard in one before picking the day's palette. An overthrown king and queen took one last glimpse as they ran from fate past the fragile few. One is from an antique shop packed to the brim with Gilded Age propaganda on a sidestreet saved from Blitzkrieg bombing.

One is from the streets, one an unwilling advert as we wander, peeking in cafes.